


The News

by slodwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slodwick/pseuds/slodwick





	The News

The news of Sherlock's return didn't make the papers. There were no splashy photos, no clever headlines. If there had been, John might have had some warning.

He climbed out of the cab on Baker Street and stopped himself again from rubbing at the sore muscle of his upper arm. A little less than five weeks until his departure to Haiti and he just had his jabs; as a doctor, he knew that was cutting it close, but it had still taken Mary threatening to leave him behind to get him in.

"I'm the head of this organization, Dr Watson," she had said the night before. She'd been looking at him over her shoulder as she hooked her bra back in place, one eyebrow arched. "It's my call whether or not you get on that flight."

"Yes, ma'am, Dr Morstan," he'd responded from his side of the bed, flipping her a half-hearted salute. His skin was still flushed, his pulse quick. He'd been a bit amazed when she'd been able to get herself upright so quickly.

"I'm _serious_ , John. No more putting it off."

He smiled and slid across the mattress. Wrapping an arm around her middle, he kissed his way along a line of freckles that were normally hidden beneath her waistband. "I know." Kiss. "I will." Kiss. "I promise." Kiss.

"Too right, you will," she said, looking down at him. She ran her hand through his hair, over his neck and caressed his shoulders. She seemed to have a fondness for his shoulders, he'd noticed. "Because I've made you an appointment for tomorrow morning."

John looked up at Mary in surprise; her expression was as close to devious as he'd ever seen. He dropped his face into the sheets and laughed, then glanced over at the clock on her nightstand. "When does your shift start, again?" he asked.

Her gaze grew decidedly more heated and she raked her nails over his shoulder, across his scar, which sent a shiver straight through him. "I don't need to leave for at least an hour."

He curled his arm tighter around her waist and gave her hipbone a lick. "Oh, that's plenty of time, then."  
  
  
Climbing the steps, John was perusing his mental checklist for the trip. There were at least two documents he needed from the box next to his bed, and he wanted to find his spare phone charger, just in case. He slipped sideways through the door to the kitchen and stopped. This had been the last room he'd packed, and for some reason, it seemed more empty than the others.The cupboard doors were slightly ajar. The counters were clear save for a couple remaining boxes, and a kettle sat in the middle of the table. It turned out that most of the sitting room furniture had belonged to Mrs Hudson, so that room was hardly changed; without the scattered chemical containers and laboratory kit, though, the bare kitchen seemed like a far more final goodbye.

John ran a hand over the table and gave a nod. Leaving Baker Street felt--not good, exactly, but _right_. It was time for a new chapter in his story, a story that had continued without Sherlock Holmes whether John liked it or not. And he was going to do something _good_ with Mary, something useful, and that felt good. It was time.  
  
Another small nod to himself, and he turned the corner to the sitting room. And froze.

Sherlock was there. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa. Perched, really, on the edge, as he had before, whenever a case had been too interesting for something as mundane as comfort. He stood when John saw him; the coat was new, short and expensive, and it matched his new haircut. His expression was--what? Anxious, John thought. A little sad, maybe? Something else.

"Hello, John." Sherlock spoke quietly, as though John were an animal that might startle and run away.

John did not run away. He said nothing. He stared at Sherlock--alive, _alive_ \--and continued saying nothing for almost a minute. Sherlock's fingers twitched; he fidgeted with the zipper of his coat, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. When he realized that John wasn't going to say anything, he finally broke the silence. "This is not the reaction I was expecting."

John huffed out a long breath. "No."

"You're taking this surprisingly well. I assumed there would be a punch thrown, at least--"

John held up a hand to interrupt. "No, Sherlock. Just-- _no_. Don't."

Sherlock tilted his head in confusion, and John nearly laughed. Of all the ways he had remembered Sherlock, confused was never one of them. And that was when he recognized that something else he'd seen in Sherlock's expression: hope. Sherlock had been hopeful; another rare sight.

"Mrs Hudson hasn't rented the flat to anyone else, so you should be able to stay here if you need to. I know she'd be happy to have you back. And you clearly don't need a key." John's voice was flat and calm. Sherlock sank back down to the sofa, and John watched the hope fading from his face; he had always good at reading John, if no one else. "Most of your belongings went to Mycroft, so you'll need to talk to him to get them back, assuming he still has them. I kept the skull and that--" John closed his eyes and took a slow breath. "That stupid hat. You can have those back, too."

This time, it was John who waited for a response. He stood still, quiet, looking directly at Sherlock. He didn't shake or cry or shout; he didn't clench his fists in anger or hatred or relief. He just waited.

"You're still leaving."

It wasn't a question, but John still answered. "Yes."

"To Haiti. With her."

He knew. Of course, he did. "Yes."

"John," Sherlock stood again and took a step towards him. "I had to-- "

John took a step back. "You had your reasons, Sherlock. I don't doubt that."

Sherlock looked down at his feet, his mind clearly working the problem. His hands opened and closed at his sides. When he looked up, all that was left in his face was sorrow. It was awful, heartbreaking, and the second worst version of him John had ever seen.

"Can't you--"

"No." John shook his head, his voice quiet. "I won't." He turned and opened the door to leave. He paused for a moment, and spoke without looking back. "Goodbye, Sherlock."


End file.
